Dreaming Deathly
by LittleJob
Summary: Strange dreams haunt the members of Lord Commander Vastus' Black Legion. They grow more intense as the damned fleet translates out of the warp, but can the cause be found on the lost planets of the XC67 System before the dark Astartes are driven mad?
1. The Dream

A god, bestriding the field of battle. Every shot felt with a tremor up his arm, the massive recoil of the bolter jamming his shoulder into it's socket. Las-shots cauterized his skin as the bit it, stemming the flow of blood before it could start. His lack of amour worried him not. He was a chosen of the gods, none could touch him, not these tiny man-lings, nor the tanks that crushed their bones as they rumbled towards him. Clods of dirt were hurled into the air as they opened fire, and in return he stitched their hulls with raking bolter fire. A shell landed to his side, and his skin peeled away like paper in a flame. More hits followed, until all that was left standing was a charred skeleton, still screaming it's defiance into the inferno raging around it.

*****

Awaken. Skin tight over taught muscle, glanding adrenaline hard and fast. Panting as he rose from his cot Yarrow Kelvic heaved a shuddering sigh, his body already relaxing thanks to deeply ingrained psycho-conditioning. His shaven head dripped sweat down his back as he stood in the tight confines of his quarters aboard the _Legion Hammer_. Gnarled, scarred fingers gripped a crystal goblet of iced water and brought it to his lips. He drank deeply, the simplicity of the action calming in itself. Placing it down he stretched to his full impressive height, even bereft of his armour the damned Astartes stood over two metres tall, and almost as wide with thickly woven muscle.

He donned a simple pair of crew trousers and a pair of worn leather boots, his armour sat in the ships amourium awaiting repair to a deep gouge in the breast plate where a rival champion had clove it with a power claw. Stepping out into the hushed, empty corridor his muscles tautened in memory of the sweet agony the had rent his flesh, and the vengeance enacted on the foe for daring to touch Yarrow with any weapon.

And thus it was, belligerent of mood, that he made his way to the vast training complex on the mid-deck of the _Hammer_. Here the manifold warriors of Lord Vastus' Black legionnaires honed their killing skills, learned so long ago in the fire at the palace of the false Emperor. Man and Superhuman worked side by side in the centre of the room, the human auxiliaries and their dark Astartes masters running drills with ruthless efficiency. At the fringes of the room deep combat pits were set into the floor. Within these the Astartes honed their single combat skills against the greatest opponents possible, each other. It was to these that Yarrow walked now, and to one in particular, the widest pit, with blood, clotted and congealing, staining the floor around it. In the pit the current combat was coming to a close, one combatant missing two fingers, the other his left ear and a chunk of flesh from his thigh. Deep self inflicted ropes of scar tissue snaked across the warriors bodies, identifying them both as world eaters, the galaxy's most proficient and blood thirsty killers. Mighty chain axes abandoned the had resorted to grappling with each other, smashing and biting, meat on meat and bone until they had to be dragged apart and forcibly subdued by the gene-bulked pit-marshalls. Yarrow jumped into the pit, placing his feet carefully in the slew of blood that permanently caked the floor.

"Any man wish to challenge Yarrow Kelvic, Champion of the first?" cried the pit-marshall, as two world eaters pre-emptively stepped forward. Their shirts off, he could see their rope-twists were short, the scars on their skulls from the brutal lobotomy process still fresh and raw against their darker skin. "Two challengers," called the pit marshall "Will you take a second lord?" this to Yarrow, whose answer lay in the look of scorn he shot the genehanced warrior. The two world eaters dropped into the pit opposite Yarrow, one crouching low on his haunches, the other taking a higher stance, his rear foot bracing against the wall behind him.

There was no buzzer to start the fight, no bell to signal the start of the round, and thus the pit was still for Several Seconds before any combatant made a move. In fact both world eaters acted at the same time, the one in the crouching stance swinging low with his leg whilst the second came in with a round house punch at head height. Yarrow caught the punch and spun with it, guiding the arm over his shoulder, and at the same time smashing his heel down on the incoming ankle, pinning it to the floor. As he turned he brought the heel of his hand up, smashing it into the neck of the standing world eater, snapping his head back with a gunshot crack, breaking his neck and taking him out of the fight As he shifted his weight the world eater on the floor lashed out with a kick to Yarrows knee. Dropping onto his backside Yarrow rolled over his shoulders and onto his feet. The world eater got to his feet less steadily; his body swaying as his re-wired neural pathways rapidly caused him to degenerate into a raving Berserker. With a roar that silenced the hall he charged forward, arms wide to grasp Yarrow around his middle. As the berserkers thick arms slid around his middle, Yarrow grabbed the marines head and slammed in down into his rising knee. The world eater left the floor and hit the opposing wall with an unhealthy crunch. Sliding to the floor he was still. Checking his internal chronometer Yarrow saw that the bout had lasted less the thirty seconds. Hauling himself out of the pit he left the training room to awed muttering.

*****


	2. Developments in the Warp

The bolter roared in his hand. The same dream, always the same dream. The bit of las-fire, the soft caress of wind on his bare flesh, the kick of his weapon, these sensations taunted him every night as he slept. They were no memory that he could recall, and he feared they may be portents of things to come. His body screamed as it was torn apart by cannon shells, and he awoke yet again, drenched in sweat.

The master of the fleet, one Estrum Malchovich, late of the Jovian Fleet, had called His Lordships war council in the grand arboretum aboard the ship. It was an eccentricity of the ship captains that none minded, the cool trees creating a softened space for off-duty deck-hand and soldiers to all enjoy. The dark glade in the centre of the arboretum had been furnished with heavy metal chairs and a wide circular table, at odds with the natural surroundings. It was here that the war council gathered; The Master of the Fleet, taking prime position; Lord Vastus Facing him. Away from the curved their soldiers and captains, each leaders warriors situated to his left, facing their counterpart in the opposing entourage. As captain of the first squad, Yarrow sat two chairs down from the lord commander, separated from him only by the sorcerer Loriaan. At the Lord Commanders shoulders stood the towering Slum Lords of Uruhech. Clad in Bold terminator armour they towered over the form of their current lord, who had bested the in their mighty palace of steel and chains, then made them watch as their world, and their empire, burned before their very eyes. Now they were slaves themselves, slaves to the undying will of the lord Vastus, indebted to be his bodyguards until they, or he, dropped dead.

Malchovich was similarly flanked by his bodyguards, two human auxiliaries, genebulked by the Dark Mechanicum to proportions almost as great as a space marine. Dark lightning crackled up long claws that slid from their skin, ridges of viscous spines along their arms and backs which could shred even power armour like wet paper. Yarrow had seen them fighting alongside their master on many fields of battle, charging forward with Malchovich dwarfed between them, smashing aside any who tried to stand in their way.

At the moment it was a junior officer who held the attention of most of the room. He was a 2nd lieutenant, and was in charge of all communication between the ships in the fleet.

"My lords" he was saying, "We have intercepted troubling communiqués from the other fleet vessels."

"Troubling how?" growled Malchovich.

"They report many strange happenings aboard their ships, strange visions suffered by their human crews, astropathicus troubles, even their Astartes have reported what seemed to them to be prophetic dreams."

At this Yarrow rose slightly from his slumped position, "what do these dreams contain?" he inquired.

"The dreamers report being somehow isolated, alone. They are often fighting, but occasionally they have reported being alone in the most inhospitable of regions. They have reported that their dreams often end in their deaths."

"Have any of the human crew-men experienced these dreams?" asked Lord Vastus.

"So far no, my lord," replied the lieutenant, "however I have warned the captaincy to keep an eye on their mental well-being."

"Very well then. If that is all we must consult with our brothers about this development."


	3. Translation: XC67

Sorry it's been so long since I added, my computer went and deleted everything i owned, but i've rewritten chapter 3, and added Chapter 4, so read, enjoy and please review :)

* * *

Sirens screamed as the _Legion Hammer_ burst from the rip in real space. Within seconds of the warning lights flashing human armsmen and legion serfs were sprinting along the long corridors of the ship, heading towards armouries and debarkment chambers. The Astartes walked at a slow pace, never rushing, crowds of humans breaking around them like waves over a rock. Each mighty warrior had a team of serfs to bolt on his armour, polishing out blemishes and handing over the mighty devices of war that the chaos fleet had pillaged from loyal warriors.

The human contingent armed and armoured themselves in rooms made for twenty plus soldiers. Each soldier wore a tight bodysuit of leather and silk, shot through with diamond filaments, proof against most weapons, as well as a long coat of adamantine mail, tied around the waist with a thick leather belt. On their heads rested high helms of adamantium and lacquered wood face masks. Each man had a long hand-and-a-half power sword sheathed across his back, and a long pattern autopistol holstered at his waist. This was the personal armed force of Lord Vastus, levied from every planet he had fought on since long before the heresy started. They were assault troops, dropped from massive thunderhawk gunships and large non-standard troop transports straight into the heart of the enemy.

They also acted as ship-boarding troops, shot across the distance of space by the mighty teleportation banks aboard Vastus' fleet. Each warrior could act fully autonomously to the rest of the army, and were trained to such a high standard that they had been known to take on full Astartes and emerge victorious.

The Space Marine contingent was significantly smaller, containing just over six thousand Astartes to the nearly five hundred thousand strong human forces, but they were enough to take most objective and hold them until support arrived. Primarily drawn from the Sons of Horus, now the black legion, as well as many separatist renegades with amour painted to match their new legion. Vastus' force was supported by several hundred berserkers of the World Eaters, most of whom were required to be chained when not unleashed for war, and then forcibly recaptured after the battle was ended. Many went to war unarmoured, their mighty chainaxes bound to their wrists by thick adamantine and brass chains.

As the sounds of arming soldiery and running feet echoed around the corridors the sirens died as abruptly as they'd started, cut of by the ships pilots as the struggled to keep control of their mighty vessel. The fleet had translated out of warp in a system designated XC67, a series of artifact worlds in the eastern fringes that were, long ranged scanners showed, sparsely populated by advanced Xenoforms of unknown designation. Unfortunately what was also unknown was the extent of the xeno's stellar travel capabilities, and Vastus' fleet had translated straight into a wide cordon of ships that had weapons armed and trained on the chaos ships. Without waiting for orders the pilots had begun evasive maneuvers, slamming their ships through any available gap at what speed they could manage immediately after translation, dodging the heavy concerted fire of the xeno's ships, rapier shaped vessels formed from deep black material that blended into the gulf of space, plasma fires burning along their tops like a ridge of spikes lining the spine of the great dragons of myth.

Fighter squadrons, something the aliens appeared to lack, were disgorged in great numbers as soon as each cruiser that contained them was fully in real space and able to react. They died in their dozens as turret fire ripped towards their parent ships.

_*All Troops Prepare For Boarding Action. All Crews Report To Transporter Arrays. Make Ready, Make Ready, Make Ready* _The Vox casters throughout the armoury decks screamed out the orders as armsmen made their way, now armed, to the great teleporters aboard the _Legion Hammer, Fist Of Wrath _and _Chained Malady._ This time the Astartes walked with them, heading a deck lower to the giant boarding torpedoes. The other ships would wait back, their troops loaded into boarding torpedoes and heavy transports to be used as reinforcements, their guns providing cover to the ships already commited.

Lord Vastus took Yarrow aside as he walked to his torpedo. "Take one of those ships intact," he hissed, barely audible over the clamour of soldiery, "I want to know how they knew we were coming", and without waiting for an answer he turned and strode back to the bridge.


	4. Boarders!

Josiv Ornill was a lieutenant in Vastus' fleet army. Six foot four inches, shaven head and pale blue eyes he had fought for his master for seventeen hundred years, kept alive by juvenant treatments and sorcery. His life had been saved by Vastus on Hydax IV when, as a sergeant in the Imperial Army, he had been brought low by a Hydax Battle Suit, it's 3 foot long energized blade slicing his left leg from underneath him. Lying in a pool of his own blood, he'd opened fire on the mighty machine as it towered over him. He'd emptied his clip then thrown the lasgun at the beast. Screaming his defiance, knowing he would die, he'd pushed himself to his remaining foot and drawn his sword-bayonet, slashing as he leapt. It had struck him aside and he'd blacked out. He'd woken minutes later to see Lord Vastus lead his terminator squad over the rubble, destroying the machine with one stroke of the chain bayonet attached to his bolter. Kneeling over the dying soldier, he'd clipped his homing beacon to Josiv's belt, the tugging sensation of teleportation pulling him through unconsciousness back to the ship. From that day on he had been indebted to Vastus, and had been invited to join his lordships personal fleet force. Now, seventeen hundred years on he led the army in his master's absence, his standard bodysuit augmented with adamantine plate in the style of the ancient europii of terra, and a great cloak of heavy velvet edged with fine fur.

He would head the attack on the vessel identified as the flagship of the enemy fleet, his hand picked squadron complemented by weapons servitors from the _Legion Hammers_ dark workshops, hulking brutes with warp cannons fused to their arms in place of conventional weaponry, and lithe, willowy beings whose bodies bristled with blades.

He shifted impatiently as he waited for the teleport to power up, shifting his sword to rest more comfortably between his shoulders, it's hilt vertically behind his head. The ship shuddered in pain as it was struck by alien weaponry, and the walls screamed s the metal plates twisted.

_/Teleport initiated, standby for translation/ _the harsh canted binary of the dark Mechanicum erupted from a vox in the throat of one of their number _/Initiating translation, __favour__ of the gods be with you/ _The cold, dead voice gave Ornill no comfort, but already he could feel the cold scratching sensation of the teleporter at the back of his eyeballs. He would soon be face to face with the foe, and he itched to gain more of his Lord's favour.

The dark Mechanicum were skilled in the use of teleportation devices, and had placed Ornill and his squadron exactly where they had wanted. The vox-mic in his helm buzzed as his warriors confirmed they had all arrived. _*Fleet troops in position, begin torpedo assault my lord* _the confirmation went by vox to Lord Yarrow and his Astartes, and while Ornill created havoc in the engine rooms and armouries their boarding torpedoes would slip silently through the gulf of space to breach to bridge and take control of the ship.

The cargo bay they had materialised in was empty, and appeared to be of similar design to the ships of the Imperium, but made of the same light sucking material as the ships exterior.

Drawing his sword, his troops following suit, Ornill set of in the direction his auspex showed to contain life signs.

Yarrow hated to travel by boarding torpedo, the inaccuracy of the transports was but one concern, as the fat tubes frequently drew a heavy rain of incoming anti-ordinance fire from ship defence weapons. Vastus had got around this by using human troops to teleport onboard a target ship and wrest control of the weapons bays before the torpedoes were in range. Right now the lieutenant commander of the fleet troopers would be leading an offensive on the enemy ship to clear Yarrow's path. But still Yarrow worried. His squad was down to six out of fifteen men, the rest having collapsed or straight out died as the enemy ships opened fire, many screaming about "The Dreamer" as they fell to their knees, faces twisted into grotesque mockeries of their former dark glory. Now he hurtled through space with the remaining troopers, their skin waxy and pale. Something is very wrong in this system, he thought to himself as he saw great cannons turn through the view ports, aligning themselves towards his position.


End file.
